Sports

April 30, 2010

You can't start your Derby Day right without reading Louisville Son Hunter Thompson's seminal essay on the subject, first published in 1970 in Scanlan's Monthly.

Do take a sip— don't stop until you get to the bottom of the glass.

I sure miss my old comrade— who the fuck writes like this anymore?

The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved

by Hunter S. Thompson

"I got off the plane around midnight and no one spoke as I crossed the dark runway to the terminal. The air was thick and hot, like wandering into a steam bath. Inside, people hugged each other and shook hands...big grins and a whoop here and there: "By God! You old bastard! Good to see you, boy! Damn good...and I mean it!"

In the air-conditioned lounge I met a man from Houston who said his name was something or other— "but just call me Jimbo"— and he was here to get it on. "I'm ready for anything, by God! Anything at all. Yeah, what are you drinkin?"

I ordered a Margarita with ice, but he wouldn't hear of it: "Naw, naw... what the hell kind of drink is that for Kentucky Derby time? What's wrong with you, boy?" He grinned and winked at the bartender. "Goddam, we gotta educate this boy. Get him some good whiskey..."

I shrugged. "Okay, a double Old Fitz on ice."

Jimbo nodded his approval.

"Look." He tapped me on the arm to make sure I was listening. "I know this Derby crowd, I come here every year, and let me tell you one thing I've learned--this is no town to be giving people the impression you're some kind of faggot. Not in public, anyway. Shit, they'll roll you in a minute, knock you in the head and take every goddam cent you have."

I thanked him and fitted a Marlboro into my cigarette holder. "Say," he said, "you look like you might be in the horse business...am I right?"

"No," I said. "I'm a photographer."

"Oh yeah?" He eyed my ragged leather bag with new interest. "Is that what you got there— cameras? Who you work for?"

"Playboy," I said.

He laughed. "Well, goddam! What are you gonna take pictures of—necked horses? Haw! I guess you'll be workin' pretty hard when they run the Kentucky Oaks. That's a race just for fillies." He was laughing wildly. "Hell yes! And they'll all be nekkid too!"

I shook my head and said nothing; just stared at him for a moment, trying to look grim. "There's going to be trouble," I said. "My assignment is to take pictures of the riot."

"What riot?"

I hesitated, twirling the ice in my drink. "At the track. On Derby Day. The Black Panthers." I stared at him again. "Don't you read the newspapers?"

Last, in today's mailbag I answer a letter from a nudist family who wants to know how you explain to the kids why the grown-ups are shaving their pubes.

"Because they're slaves to fashion, darling!"

You can call my audio show anytime with your questions or comments to my hotline at 831-480-5110. You can also send your confidential questions- plus requests for free samples and blog banners!- to susie@susiebright.com. (Episode 414, December 18, 2009)

“[My husband and I] have an agreement that we’ll always be honest— and if sex happens with another person, that’s not a deal breaker for us. That’s not something where we’ll have to say, ‘Oh God, we’ve got to go to divorce court because you cheated on me.’ Because we don’t cheat."

But this cuckold fantasy that Tiger spins— where he vicariously enjoys his pretty lover getting plowed by two butch hunks— how timely!

The humiliated-but-thoroughly-aroused-husband is the biggest new trend in taboo erotic fantasies.

In 2006 or so, I started seeing the first mini-fad of erotic cuckolding confessions, which started to proliferate on CraigsList. More elaborate versions subsequently arrived in the form of manuscripts in my mailbox— authors seeking to publish on the subject. It was still an "embarrassing" fantasy— none of the people who sent me fiction wanted to use their real name in print.

"It surprises me to no end that the sexual fetish of cuckoldry, once thought of as a disability, could be shared by so many people. The cuckolding fetish has an element of surprise, along with a bittersweet emotional masochism.

"Another key to the fetish, from the perspective of the cuckold, is that of eroticizing as a defense mechanism. When someone you care about expresses their interest in another person, you wrestle with your inadequacies. This fight may take on different forms, in many cases with the ultimate rejection of your lover.

"However, if your bond is strong, and you’re able to put aside that sense of self, then it’s possible to experience pleasure vicariously.

"Many people may think of this as abhorrent, as tantamount to abuse, while others believe it’s an essential part of their sexual health. I don’t know; I’m only trying to describe something that I’ve thought about for a long time.

"Some may find putting oneself second to be deleterious to one’s emotional health; others find something beautiful in the idea of loving your partner so much that you become attracted to whatever role he or she plays, whatever the two of you become. I leave the benedictions to others.

"A third ingredient to the mix is homoerotic. There is no way to avoid this with groups of three. Even in the most repressed situations, at least two out of the three people are of the same gender, and all parties are interested in the situation, else they would stop participating.

"In my story, as in my perceptions of cuckoldry from real life, betrayal is on the horizon. There’s a real possibility that any pair may break off from the group and form a greater intimacy. That prospect keeps the game competitive, and the players had better give their best performances, bank on everything they have in their bag of tricks— because, ultimately, someone must lose."

After I published "Playing Doctor," I heard from Kidder Kaper, the impresario of the Sex is Fun game group, who told me he was writing an illustrated book of sexy role-playing games for couples. He wanted my feedback on a cuckolding fantasy he was drawing.

His scheme involved setting up a tableau in your bedroom so it looks "as if" the wife is just getting buggered by a handyman before her husband walks in. Very clever! All the erotic drama without an actual plumber— or cheatin'!

His column was the first place I listened to men, who, despite using pseudonyms, were unapologetic about their turn-on.

"Yes," they said, "it's emotionally masochistic; so what? Why do bottoms who merely request spankings get to have all the fun?"

Then there was the question, "But isn't it gay? Are you hung up on Daddy?"

Some men, said, "Sure, I'm bisexual and a submissive. I'm a happy camper." Others said,"This fantasy doesn't work for me without the woman; she's the star. I identify with her, but I don't want to be a man getting worked by another man."

Mostly what they said, like every other person who has a non-vanilla fantasy life, was: "Don't judge me!"

Cuckold-fantasists are every kind of person, not identifiable by what they wear or the circumstances of their public life. You might think they were one of the most powerful, charismatic men in the world— you know, like Tiger Woods. Is he ready to be a poster boy?

Do women eroticize being cheated on? Jealousy is a universal experience and we often "play" with its green tendrils, to give ourselves a charge. Too much, and it's anti-erotic— just enough, and it's spice.

To tell you the truth, though, I have never received a manuscript submission where a "wife" describes coming home to find her husband being ravished by two man-eating nymphos who make sport of her. In a classic cuckquean fantasy, the wife would then jill off, right in front of her sexy tormenters, simultaneously humiliated and exhilarated.

September 01, 2008

The first thing I thought when I heard a foxy female governor from Alaska was anointed as the McCain's running mate was:

"Wow, they didn't have single man on their short list who didn't have a freakazoid, wide-stance, hooker-party sex scandal on his rap sheet— they HAD to pick a woman."

But I was so naive. Sarah Palin has enough scandals of her own, sexual and otherwise, to make a sailor blush.

I feel a bit sorry for her, as I do for all the photogenic "spokesmodels" that the GOP specializes in recruiting for jobs that they prefer to be handled by professionals behind the scenes. The neo-cons have no respect for government; it's just a business they've enjoyed deregulating. They put up the the most useful idiots on the ballot that they can launder, and smirk at every sucker they take in. After all, Karl Rove's an atheist who's made a career out of manipulating the religion vote!

For all the squawking about Sarah Barracuda's lack of experience, I am certain Palin is smarter than George W. was at any age, and she can READ better than he ever will, on or off a teleprompter. She earned a bachelor's degree at the University of Idaho that she made the grades for, all by herself— without anyone pulling a string. She can shoot a grizzly between the eyes at 100 yards, and is a lot better "close in" that Dick Cheney will ever be. Let's face it, Palin's an L-Word fantasy writ large, and the perfect example of why butch straight women set hearts aflutter no matter where they appear.

But despite her fantastic hide-your-own-caribou upbringing, there is one way that Sarah Palin betrayed her classic Alaskan heritage and that is by being such a two-faced prig.

I only spent one youthful summer working in the 49th State— but the impression I left with is that Alaskans care about whether you pull your own weight, and mind your own beeswax. That's it. How you spend your personal time, and what you believe in, is entirely up to you.

Like everyone else in Alaska, Sarah Palin had "premarital sex." Like every other Alaskan of my generation, she smoked weed. She lived close to nature and was familiar with the unsentimental cycle of life, death, and birth. She works hard and plays hard. It's no joke that there's nothing much to do in those months of darkness besides fuck, hunt, fish, smoke, and drink. Her teenagers are apparently following in their parents' footsteps... they too, are having sex, and now one of them, Bristol, is said to be pregnant, for the first time. (Her boyfriend says on his MySpace page: "I don't want kids.)"

No one would give a whit about any of the Palin peccadilloes if Sarah hadn't made such a spectacle of herself campaigning as a pro-lifer, gay-hater, abstinence-monger, Creationist-dork. Where does she get off mandating public policy that tells anyone how to live their life?

Sarah's been under the Crony Club impression that's there's one set of rules for stupid voters, and another life of privacy and privileges for the elite. Is it so hard to imagine that Sarah also has family members who are gay, or who've had an abortion? When she was earning her B.S. at Idaho State, I bet she had the sense not to stuff Genesis fairy tales down everyone's throats in Biology class. I can guarantee her family doesn't preach abstinence around the Moose Stew.

A number of people spent the weekend wondering if young Bristol is already a mother, of the mysterious "Trig" who she holds so devotedly to her chest. The idea that mom Sarah might've faked a pregnancy to cover up the family's shame is a real Alaskan Gothic. It's parallel to a doping scandal. Politicians have to "dope up" their family history to make the impossible seem believable. Of course normal flesh and blood family members are going wreak havoc, especially the teenagers. Of course any candidate's life will fail the Leave It To Beaver test.

It's obnoxious on every side. The way the Democrats spin Obama's home life makes my eyes clench shut. I don't want to know! I don't care if they're crabby or delightful or close-knit or estranged or cute or ugly... SHUT UP already.

I only care about one thing, and that's the politics the candidate is fronting. I expect them to be held accountable to the will of the people— and that's not a profile you'll find in a tabloid magazine. We're the only country in the world that makes our presidential election candidates into a beauty contest. Did "Miss Wasilla" say that she longed for Whirled Peas when she accepted her Miss Congeniality crown? I don't think so.

Why doesn't she just take a big breath of icy Northern Air and tell the truth: Sarah Palin got picked for this job like a two-bit player at a casting call. What McKook doesn't understand is this: Barracuda is an ambitious Sourdough ballhandler who isn't going to let anybody's brats— nor the GOP— stand in her way.

February 06, 2007

If you were surprised by the big TV ratings for past Sunday's Super Bowl game, let me introduce you to one of the surprising fans: me. I barely know the rules of the game, but I am a total sucker for anything political, poignant, or scandalous about big league sports.

Then we had a dude named Tank who got to play with a special court order cause he can't stop stocking weapons of mass destruction in his apartment. Plus everyone's still talking about how the NFL essentially uses their players to be concussion dolls until they turn into brain-deformed "retirees" who off themselves rather than endure life in a deranged stupor.

Finally, there was Chicago itself. I was rooting for the Bears, as I will root for any team that hasn't had a win in decades. As I explained to my daughter, when the 49ers first won in the 80s, San Francisco exploded into a lubricated sea of love. I've never seen anything like it again until Gavin Newsom rang the bells for gay marriage on Valentines Day.

The day Dwight Caught Joe, that very moment, I was sitting in a flat on Potrero Hill, the bedrock of the city, and you could hear a roar that came up from Market Street on one side and Hunter's Point on the other. It shook the window glass.

I walked out into the street, and it was as if EVERYONE walked out on cue. You could kiss ANYONE. I got on the MUNI bus just to ride the hottest parties. You heard about how the whole nation of Denmark is on a permanent high because of a big game they finally won fifteen years ago? Such is the disposition of the underdog who finally gets a break.

I don't have cable service, or even a television in the house, but we remembered we had a miniature set in the garage, so we dragged it out of hibernation. We biked to Radio Shack to pick up an eight dollar antenna.

Thank god for the Salinas CBS signal, one of the few stations we could receive. If you're a native English speaker, you're presumed to have cable. But if Spanish is your first language, all the Telemundo-style stations are beaming loud and clear with nothing but a VHF bunny ears propped on the table.

I find that if you haven't watched TV with your lover in a long time, it's... sexy. Surreal. We had to sit in each other's laps to view the tiny screen. Super Bowl Sex was in the air. We practiced our wardrobe malfunctions.

When it comes to anything happening on the field, I'm a screamer. "Shut him the fuck down!" I kept wailing at the Bears defense. I could sack Peyton Manning with the side of my clit; what was their excuse?

Then we had the Bears QB problem child, Rex Grossman. I knew the local press had picked him apart like dime bag, but I was wiling to give him a fair shake. Until that moment, in the second half, when he was sacked twice in— what was it?— two minutes? Throwing passes up in the sky like it was Balloon Day at the Big Game?

The camera showed us a close-up of Rex walking back to the sidelines, and holy shit— "He's got a pouty face!" I screamed that too. Biggest professional day of his life, and he's sulking. My heart sank.

Back in the holy days, when the 49ers were losing, but still had six minutes left, you would raise your glass and sigh, "Oh darling, let's ENJOY Joe Montana scoring two touchdowns now, shall we? Let's go for a little drive! —All the time in the world!"

This, however, was your garden-variety soaking. I started using my laptop to tune into Indianapolis live barroom coverage so I could at least enjoy the sounds of the Rock Bottom getting their binky on. Even the priests were sashaying in Colts vestments.

One question though: Peyton Manning is obviously talented and conventionally good-looking, but he has zero sex appeal. What is the problem? This whole Bowl was short on that kind of charisma; I had to provide all the tingles myself.

The special note to my teeny tiny Super Bowl party was the food.

I know how to make a chili for people who hate chili. —A chili for vegetarians that the meat-lovers will demand for seconds. —A chili you can make in minutes but will make everything believe you toiled for hours. You can cook it as picanté as you like, but I know how to take all the heat out of it, and still make people feel rambunctious. And... my guacamole is the best.

These are not idle boasts. Here is my recipe, rudely adapted from Molly Katzen's Still Life with Menu, for Black Chili with Pineapple Salsa, Susie Guacamole, and Crazy Cuke Sauce: Link.

June 27, 2006

A month before the start of the World Cup, Iran's chief sports minister vowed to crack down on athletes who looked effeminate. Apparently, he likes losing.

Take the flamboyance out of futbol, and you have nothing. The game is all about artistry and passion and, dare we say it, unbridled eroticism. A culture that can't reconcile those qualities with masculinity will always have a hard time at the World Cup.

I'm not sure what that says about the U.S. and its early departure, but I do know that watching the World Cup feels intoxicatingly different from following traditional American sports. I particularly love the operatic deathbed scenes that accompany even minor injuries, with none of the shame that boys here are taught to feel if they flinch when a fastball clips them viciously on the elbow. In futbol, stoicism hurts; it won't elicit a yellow card of sympathy. Drama queens get all the breaks.

So says Gwen Knapp, sportswriter for the SF Chronicle, in what has got to be the most penetrating sports story of the year for the mainstream press. Read the whole thing here— what a great think piece!

I don't watch team sports, but yet— I know who all the most gorgeous soccer players are— because as Knapp suggests, their image, drama, and sex appeal travels far off the field into everyone's consciousness. I can't think of an NFL star with that kind of appeal since Broadway Joe!

December 19, 2005

I don't know why I've hidden this for so long... but with the nights getting longer, I feel confessional.

I'm a surf-porn aficionado. Yes, I'm talking about those movies with the soul-crashing waves and those beautiful men... sometimes women. It's a vicarious thrill that few can match. And yes, I have the choice stuff.

First of all, you should understand that I don't surf. I'm a surf widow, in fact. So when I tell you these movies are good, it's coming from an erotic, artistic viewpoint. I can't tell you shit about the surfing.

Remember how people used to put on a slow Elvis record to create a little atmosphere? Well, you can just throw the King in the can. The sexiest backdrop to any make-out-room has got to be "Joel Tudor: Longer," by JBrother. You'll get the idea as soon as you see the web site. it's one long-playing trompe-de-foreplay. I have people in New York who've never surfed a day in their lives begging me for copies of this DVD. Now you know where to find it yourself!

What makes it sexy? Well, the music is incredible, the cinematography is like living through a dream, and Joel himself is one of the most graceful creatures on earth. And then there's that amazing water, in every arc and color. Aqua-erotica, indeed.

Joel Tudor is all about mellow. On the other hand, sometimes you want to fuck and scream and pull someone's hair— that's when you want to throw down and watch "Monster Mavericks". Do not accept any lame imitation! There are tons of Mavericks movies on the scene and they are all NOTHING compared to this one.

"Monster Mavericks" was made by Mark Matovich, who obviously loves music. He created a punk/grunge soundtrack of insane caliber. It's like "Cobain Goes Surfing." Couple the sounds with the terrifying descriptions of Mavericks' break, and it's like listening to the darkest Edgar Allen Poe. Finally, you have the rides... complete death thrills. Psychotic Wipeouts. One Petit Mort after another. It's devastating, and for the dry observer at home, a total rush.

Women, you ask? Well, there's many to watch, and my favorite from the lusting point-of-view, is Keala Kennelly. There is no movie to do her justice, or any of the other female surfers, from an homage point of view. The mainstream surf photographers don't seem to know how to eroticize women athletes, or they're afraid to.

The (male) surf-shooters have the old-school notion that "sexy" photos are supposed to be nudie shots, and of course these female competitors would kill them if they reduced them to that. This is one of the most macho sports there is; it makes bullfighting look ladylike.

But does Joel Tudor have to drop his trunks to be devastating? Of course not. It's these women's sheer performance that turns me on— I want to be SLAMMED by these Amazons, not tickled with them. Keala gets the closest to that, in her charisma; so if you dig her, check out her scenes in "Step Into Liquid," — the movie is a bit corny, but the footage is fantastic.

November 08, 2005

In all the legends, all the mythology, no one has recorded their existence before. More elusive than the beast of Loch Ness, more prized than the Sphinx.

Finally, caught on camera, we see them— the Lesbian Cheerleaders. The angry sirens finally showed their faces, albeit in a pitiable meltdown. They did not go gently. The bruise the blond butch gave that straight woman who crossed her is a shiner for the ages. They fought the sheriff; they went down slammin'. Those TopCats sure are tough.

Do you have any idea how many "lesbian cheerleader porn sites" there are? I gave up flipping the Google pages. Not one of those women is a real cheerleader; none of them are out-of-the-closet lesbians making a serious declaration. There are no "Goddammit, I'm a real dyke and a genuine cheerleader" forums. No esoteric little support groups. Nada.

And yet.... from the field, we see it differently. Professional cheerleaders are serious athletes and dancers. Their reputation has withered to their sex appeal, but the physical demands they make upon themselves have never been more rigorous.

They're required to look like angels, but work out like Decathlon contenders. They are the incarnation of the All-American Girl, albeit in Vegas showgirl bikinis. They must inspire hysterical sexual fantasy, yet remain entirely chaste. It's a great place to work if you're adept at keeping secrets and abuse to yourself.

And now we have Reneé, and Angela, NFL pros, caught in the glare of their mug photos. They committed the unpardonable female sin of tying up the women's john in an overcrowded Tampa bar. The impatient ladies in line revolted: "Goddammit, we've got to tinkle and those dykes are GETTING IT ON in the stall."

There was an ambush. Someone called the police— "Officer, this is Florida, and homosexuals are using our toilets." The dykes came out swinging— the younger one, underage, gave a registered nurse a perfect black eye. The dark-haired older one, (also a RN!) tussled with the police. The sheriff announced they were almost too drunk to stand up, and the mug shots show the beginnings of a hangover. I've always wondered— how can you be too drunk to stand, yet have deadly aim with your fists?

The frenzy began immediately: the TV spit in all directions, the Panthers' official web site crashed; ESPN never had a bigger story. Pictures were demanded and dissected.

Most of the web comments came from horny men who couldn't believe they'd found the mother lode, the actual article of the lesbian cheerleader. They had no concerns about the girls' career... one man said, "if they make a video where they fist each other's mayonnaise jars like there's no tomorrow, they'll be set." He apparently has no idea how little porn models are paid, regardless of their ephemeral fame.

A more realistic assessment appeared in the forums at the Charlotte Observer, where the porndogs were interrupted by citizens who fumed that these girls had shamed North Carolina, that they were disgusting perverts who made the South look bad, and that they couldn't be driven out of town on a rail fast enough.

As cruel as they are, these sentiments are exactly what Reneé and Angela face in their future, far more than mayonnaise jars full of cash. They can either get a little money and infamous disgrace, as stupid drunk lesbo bimbos— or they can disappear, change their names, and find different careers from what they trained for all their lives.

There's little chance that they will appear on Ellen DeGenere's daytime TV show to talk about how proud they are to be gay— and how now that they're in a 12-step program to quit drinking, they can reveal how the shame of one's sexuality can practically kill you.

There have always been serious lesbians in the "beautiful girl" professions: modeling, acting, beauty pageants, sexy sports. The strippers and call girls are part of it, too. They are cultivatated to look like Barbies, and the butchest ones regard it as pure drag.

They feel estranged from political dykes, who they know regard them as traitors. Their argument is: "Fuck you, I'm independent, I make my own money, and men can kiss my ass." They regard themselves as hustlers of exceptional toughness, both physically and mentally. They really are the ultimate separatists. Your typical lesbian cheerleader couldn't care less about men, or straight people, or anyone outside their carny-like insider world.

I should say, that I don't know these two women, and fact-wise, I don't have any more idea than you whether they are homosexual, bisexual, or drunksexual. They may even be libeled by their accusers. My thoughts here are a speculation on nothing but damning appearances. The reason I may sound plausible is because, underneath it all, we know that women like this are suppressed beyond good reason, and at some point, it's going to blow up. The miracle is that it hasn't erupted so publicly before.

I was once in love with a cheerleader. And she loved me. I was the brunette and she was the blond. She tried to show me how to throw a baton, but I was useless at it. The nature of our relationship was secret, and I was terrible at that, too. The only thing I am good at, is becoming infatuated with girls who have long swinging hair on the outside, but James-Dean-on-destruct appetites under that shiny crown.

I read Reneé as a butch in drag. Here's her motto from her Panthers bio: "Pain is weakness leaving the body." Her deepest loyalties lie with her family and her three dogs. When that straight bitch outside the barroom stall insulted her girlfriend, Reneé clocked her but good. Oh my god, I'm in love.

Angela is older by six years. She knows her new lover is a pistol, who pulls on all her maternal strings. At the same time, that child-demon offers the perfect escape from the good-girl grind.

The pressure will be on our lovebirds to disassociate, to deny anything happened, to put on the mask. But in my dreams, they would defy all that they've been scorned with.

What I love about Angela and Reneé, is that unlike every fake lez cheerleader porno, they did their "sex act" in the women's room— for themselves, oblivious to everyone else. That's what I cherish, that they got it on for their own self-interest, as opposed to the panting crowd, the GGW camera, the titillation machine.

Reneé might do some Bounty Hunter makeover, like the famous Domino, or the drummer from the Runaways. Those are her butch ancestors, although it would be nice to leave the drug abuse behind.

Angela, the femme, has a more difficult path, because she can't reinvent herself as easily at her age. She wants to be a mom, she wants to be trusted for her nurturing qualities, and only the other dyke femmes in the audience see that now. Those mean straight ladies with their bibles and sharp rulers in their hands want to see her damned as as whore and never let up. The discriminating porn fans see that she is not conventionally pretty, and have already sentenced her to the dog pound.

Angela said, on the Panthers' web site, that her motto is: "Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away."

Her affair with Reneé took the wind out of her— but good. It remains to be seen how the future will measure up. I hope they will find it was worth every damn second.